Conceptual
by Caffine and Nicotine
Summary: A run away street artist has an accidental run-in with C.M. Punk. Displeased with the thought of having any sort of relationship with someone like her father, Rylee Runnels has now got to find a way to drive away the man who seems to keep showing up in her life. How long can she hold out before she accepts that the handsome man is interested in her and isn't going to just go away?
**Chapter One - Art on the Street**

Spring in the Windy City has a tendency to be caught somewhere between blisteringly cold and sopping wet with overtones of, you guessed it, wind. Late spring, however gave off the mild reminder that summer wasn't far off, and the usually gusting winds become welcome to all the residents trying to escape the humidity

.

All the residents, except one, that is. Clad in paint stained blue jeans and a black midriff band tee with the sleeves cut off and a trusty pair of converse that have seen better days, a short young woman strutted her way down West Maddison toward Garfield park, tattered messenger bag laden down with supplies. Her long, chestnut colored hair was tossed up in a messy bun with long tendrils hanging down by her face. She wrinkled her nose, the acrid scent of smog wafting her way with a quick change of direction from the breeze.

'Today of all days,' she thought irritably, looking over the highly occupied park with a sneer. 'I hate Labor Day's pre-weekend.'

It was the general kick off to summer in her area, meaning everyone from small children to snotty high school brats would be out in the park, picnicking, frolicking, and enjoying the many events of the weekend; including but not limited to the wine festival, a marathon, a half marathon, flea markets, and a carnival. Oh yeah, and an in town wrestling pay-per-view. She really wasn't that fond of the athletes. They came to town every now and then, and when they were there, they took all the people that would normally be watching her performance. That wouldn't be such a bad thing if her job wasn't ninety-nine percent tip based. She was a street artist.

No, not like a gang tagger. She sighed, stopping outside of the booth she had been assigned to for the night. It was one of fifty randomly placed metal booths, complete with an awning, glass topped half walls on three sides, a wraparound desk top with a built-in turntable to hold the poster board she worked on. Beside the booth was an old-style cash register on top of a smaller podium. Speakers were laced all around the booth- the kind that came with an in-home surround sound system- to pump music and catch attention.

Rubbing at her eyes, the woman set about pulling out the stands for her paintings. There were five attached to the front of the booth and five that stood solo on the ground. She pulled the ever-so classy bucket it the paper "TIPS APPRECIATED" sign from under the podium and looked around for her manager. Across the way, a slightly taller blonde girl stood, chatting up a cute stranger, trying to convince him that he should stay to watch the show. Rolling her eyes, the brunette pivoted and entered her booth, double checking all her paper supplies, plastic bucket lids of various sizes, and paint scrapers. She knew she would have enough paint to work through the night; she carried it with her in her messenger bag. As she pulled out the multiple cans, marked by their bright colors, she glanced up at her manager again.

"Hey! Quinn! You gonna come que up the music or what?" she hollered to her blonde counterpart.

Shooting her a frown, Quinn reached out to playfully pat the man's arm, chatting quickly before she returned to her friend. "You're such a cockblock," she whined pathetically, scrolling through the IPod for the right song to start the evening. "Just once can't you let me bring a hot guy home?"

"Not when it disrupts my shows. Talk to him after we get set and started," the brunette sighed. She tugged on her black latex gloves, locking the door to the back of the booth behind her. The _last_ thing she needed was for some creep to be over her shoulder while she was working. "You set?"

Quinn grinned, nodding and pressing play. All of a sudden, _Panic! At The Disco_ 's "Miss Jackson" began playing through the speakers. "Let's roll, Ryles," the blonde cheered, bobbing her head to the music.

Happy to oblige, Rylee bent her head and began, bobbing along with the music. People all around the park began making their way over, curious about the spectacle. With the cans of paint, she made bright yellow and red lines, then covered them entirely with black. Using her larger paint scraper, she carefully and artfully drew across the black, wiping away the darker paint until she had created the Chicago Skyline as seen from the channel into Lake Michigan. The red and yellow gave the windows- created with swift swipes and carefully dropped lines- a 'lit up' feeling. As she painted, adding in blues, greens and whites for the channel, it became clear that the image was of the city, with a minor alteration; it was an aerial view from Sears Tower. By the time it was complete, _3Oh!3_ had belted out "Déjà vu" and _Cobra Starship_ had made all the "Good Girls Go Bad," and there was a figure diving backward off the Sears Tower toward the city below.

Holding up her image, the crowd around her clapped and whistled, and she handed the painting over to Quinn.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen! Rylee here does take requests, and we have many, many more of her pieces over here by the podium, please stop over and check them out. Thirty bucks a picture and tips are always welcome!" Quinn announced over _Paramore_ 's "Misery Business." As her friend was talking, the first piece sold, and Rylee was half way through the second image, A dream catcher with waterfalls pouring out of it, done in pastels.

When her shift finally ended at four am, Rylee was wired and ready to go all night. If it hadn't been for Nikki and Rodger coming in to tag the girls out, she would have spun out pictures all night. Instead, she packed away her paints and took her IPod off the auxiliary cable.

"It's been a great crowd tonight, Rodg," she sighed as the handsome man met her outside the booth with a steamy cup of espresso. "They'll keep you at it until at least ten. Or I'll cut off my right tit."

Laughing, he brushed his sandy blonde surfer hair from his face, grinning down at her. "That's what I like to hear! Have a good one Ry."

"You too, hon."

Knowing she was too pumped to sleep, Rylee waved Quinn toward their apartment. "I'll be in before noon," she promised, taking off toward downtown, ready to grab some Starbucks and people watch. Quinn, too exhausted to argue, handed over Rylee's tips and headed off on her own. They didn't live far, so it was no sweat for either woman to go home on their own so late in the night.

Downtown, Rylee sat on a bench, watching the wanderers and stragglers make their way through the night, contently sipping on her mocha latte, her favorite "take my time drink" from Starbucks. She could have easily spent hours there, watching the people pass her by like she was just a piece of the scenery. And she would have, too. Just as she was settling in to rest and relax, a hand clamped firmly over her mouth. On reflex she squeezed her drink hard enough for the plastic top to pop off and fall uselessly to the ground. Turning with everything she had, Rylee threw the scalding contents of her cup into the face of her assailant, jerking forward to run as soon as she was out of his grips.

The woman ran for blocks, her feet pounding the sidewalk with ferocity that guaranteed they would be sore in the morning, occasionally glancing back to assure herself that she lost her attacker. It was while she was facing away that it happened. The brunette, hair broken free of the constraints of her hair tie, ran smack dab into a solid wall of muscle and fell flat on her ass.

"The fuck are you-" sputtered an angry male voice. The man was roughly six two, lean, covered in tattoos from what she could see, and wearing jeans and a hoodie. His hair was short, almost buzzed, and his face held the five o'clock shadow of a goatee, shadowing a deep scowl and narrow olive eyes.

"I- I'm… s-so sorry," she panted, pulling herself to her feet as she subtly looked the man over. He was attractive as hell. "L-long story short… my bad." Rylee sighed as she finally got her breath back into her.

The man stared at her for a minute, his eyes hard. Slowly backing up, Ry lifted her hands. In a snap, he reached out, grabbing her wrists. Tattooed across the tender flesh inside of them were matching red "X"'s. "You straight-edge?" he asked, his voice gruff, uncertain.

Blinking, she pulled feebly at her arms for release. "Uh, yeah. Watched my dad coke-out a few years back and mum's got a nasty drinking problem. I don't need that shit in my life," she muttered, rubbing at her wrists when he released them. "You?"

He flashed her a cocky grin. "Mh. I'm Phil, better known as C.M. Punk, Straight-Edge Superstar," he introduced.

"Hi Phil. How very nice," she said, rolling her eyes. "Superstar of what? M'name's Rylee Runnels. Street artist and long-forgotten run-away."

It wasn't something that hit him right away, but Phil frowned, watching the girl. Something about her name clicked in his mind, but he couldn't quite place it. "Formerly, the WWE, though I'm a UFC man now."

She sighed, nodding. "I see. Nice to… run into you, Phil, but I'm not fond of you wrestling-types. Too much bad history. Have a good night, and sorry, again, for smashing into you." She hefted her messenger bag back onto her shoulder, where it had slipped from slightly, and turned toward the apartment complex for a long night of fidgeting and sleeplessness. As if struck, the superstar stared after her until long after she disappeared into the night.

* * *

It was almost a full week before Phil saw the young woman with a familiar name again. It was around ten at night, and he had been out jogging near the Navy Pier when he first thought he had seen her. He had been mistaken, again. Several times over that week he had thought he spotted the young woman. Mostly because he couldn't get their encounter out of his mind. It had been so unusual. Now, he stood still as stone, watching her use spray paint to make a picture of some sort. It was definitely her. She was dressed exactly the same as she was nearly a week before. And she had said she was a street artist. It had taken some Googling, but he figured out where she was familiar from.

That girl, the one with the problem with UFC and WWE, was another of Dusty Rhodes' kids. Without realizing it, Phil had made his way over to her booth, watching her dance and paint, all at the same time, whilst apparently singing - or lip syncing - along to _Metro Station_ 's "Shake it". His olive orbs stuck to her like glue, watching every sweep of her paint scraper, every paper-shielded spray of her paint, and every step of her intricate dance.

As he watched, he became entranced. The picture was going from a black nothingness, transforming into colors and shapes, eventually ascending that to be a lone wolf, howling at an eerily dark red moon in a forest of monochrome pines. It took no more than two minutes for the girl to make it. When she signed it and lifted it to show the crowd, cheers and whoops sounded all around him.

And it was then that they made eye contact. Her eyes were a strange color, something he hadn't noticed before. They were caught somewhere between the color of honey in the sunshine, and yellow topaz. If it weren't unique enough, her right eye was half blue-green. Like someone had splashed paint accidentally there. The most unnerving thing about them, though, was that they bore into his eyes with unabashed curiosity, and seemed to see right through him, all at the same time. It made him feel more naked than he could ever remember being.

Phil, ever quick to keep himself guarded, offered her one of his signature cocky grins, touching two fingers to his right temple in a mock salute. He knew she wouldn't hear him over the music, so the gesture would have to be greeting enough. She nodded solemnly to him before handing off the painting and starting fresh. He stood there watching her the rest of her shift, making eye contact when she would look up. The blonde girl that stood at the podium, occasionally coming out to talk to the crowd and accept payments for different pictures bought, leaned over the glass barrier, chatting with Rylee while she painted.

When the next artist finally came and she packed up her paint, Phil found that he had purchased three of the paintings she made, as well as leaving ten dollars a picture for tip.

"Your job lasts forever. I spent over a hundred bucks, just to talk to you tonight," he said when she was near enough to hear him over the new music.

"Gotta make a living, and the family business isn't really my thing," she drawled, her subtle Southern accent more pronounced than he recalled. Or maybe he noticed it now, knowing who she was and where she came from.

"Yeah, about that... I looked you up. What's your deal? Dusty is one of the coolest guys to ever be in the business," Phil started, defensive of the old man. "He always made sure to take care of everyone."

"Except his non-wrestling family."

Phil glared at her, silently probing for more. When she didn't relent, he threw his hands up in frustration. "Women are impossible."

She shook her head, chuckling softly. Rylee didn't care if she made sense to him. He was just another one of the men who worshiped the man who walked out on her when she was too young to understand it. "Listen, hon. It's great that you love 'im. He's all your's," she sighed. "That man hasn't so much as sent a post card since I was four years old. I don't even know him."

Phil frowned. 'She doesn't know,' he thought, shaking his head. "Listen- Rylee, right?" He paused, continuing when she nodded. "He died last summer... stomach cancer."

For a second, the woman went rigid, freezing in her forward march toward the nearest Starbucks. "Oh. I see." In that moment, she didn't look like a young woman taking care of her life, but more like a girl who just had her dreams crushed. "Well," she cleared her throat. "I think I should get back home... if you're across town you're welcome to stay on the couch for the night, Quinn wont care." She offered, turning down a side street that cut toward her apartment complex. Her station that night at Willis Tower fading evermore into the night with every passing step.

Phil, curious about the woman, chose to stick close. They walked in terse silence, each lost in their own thoughts. One thing was unspokenly clear though: they would be seeing quite a bit of one another.

* * *

 ** _Please review. I don't really know where I'm going with this, so if you have suggestions, throw them at me! Thanks!_**


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